From the fog in the mountains came the silver silhouette of a wolf. It was a spirit creature, and Annon thought that he was the only one who would be able to see it.

Are you the Fear Liath? he challenged in his mind.

No—I am come to shield you, Druidecht. I am a Wolviren. My sisters surround your camp. It will not be able to smell your blood if you stay amidst us. These mountains are its lair. Be cautious.

Thank you, Annon said, bowing his head in relief.

He sat at the edge of the stone circle where their fire had burned out. “We are being protected now.”

“What was it?” Hettie whispered, crouching near him.

“A bad dream,” Paedrin drawled, sitting across from him. “There was nothing out there.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Annon said. “I was raised in the woods, Paedrin. You’ll just have to trust me.” He patted Hettie’s arm. “I’m sorry I woke you. Try and get some sleep. We have guardians surrounding us.”

Paedrin raised an eyebrow. His Bhikhu robes were dirty and seemed too colorful for drab woodlands. A flower out of place. Annon had heard the Bhikhu were reverential, respectful, and rather naive—seeing all things as black or white, right or wrong, good or evil. They were unlike the Druidecht, who saw all the shades in between both extremes. However, Paedrin fit none of his assumptions about the Bhikhu or the Vaettir. He was proud, wary, and exceptionally funny. It was the humor that was completely unexpected.

Annon stared at him a moment. “Do you miss the city yet?” he asked.

Paedrin circled his legs and rocked back slightly. “Not at all. Ever since I was young, I wanted to roam the lands outside of Kenatos. I have heard the forests of Silvandom are legendary. Unfortunately for me, this trip to Havenrook is bound to be too short.”

“I doubt the treasure we seek will be found in Havenrook,” Hettie said, pulling up her knees and resting her chin on her arms. “We’ll have to persuade Erasmus to help us.”

“Do you think it will be enough?” Annon asked her softly. “To secure your freedom?”

Paedrin snorted and chuckled. “She is already free.”

Hettie shot him a murderous look. “You know nothing about the Romani.”

Annon intervened, touching her elbow. “Will it be enough?”

She sighed. “I hope so.” She stared into the night, silent but seething.

Hettie was nothing like the Romani that Annon had known. She was intensely private and guarded, even with him, but they had spent the previous night getting to know each other and cobbling together insights from the scraps Tyrus had fed them. Neither had known about the other. Tyrus had visited Annon when he was nearly eight years old and taught him to control his anger and, by extension, his ability to summon fire with his hands. The Romani had taught Hettie. They had both been warned not to share the ability with others, for those who had the fireblood were hunted and killed. Tyrus himself had managed to conceal his from the world, despite his fame as a Paracelsus.

Hettie did not trust easily.

“What will you do with your freedom?” Annon asked her, wishing that Paedrin was asleep. He did not think she would be as open with him listening. He was watching them both surreptitiously.

“I’m not just a Romani,” she said in a soft voice. “I was trained as a Finder. I could earn my own way.” He sensed that behind her aloofness there was much more to her than that. He wanted to draw her out more. For her to confide in him.

The night before, as their conversation had gone on, Hettie began to open up more—just a little. If he had not been a good listener, he would have missed one comment of genuine warmth about the man who had purchased her from the Romani at age eight and taught her to be a Finder.

“Where is Evritt now?” he probed.

She shot him a look that was full of warning. She would not be as open in front of the Bhikhu. “Judging by the stars, the night is still young. Whose turn for the watch?”

He was disappointed she would not reveal more of herself that night. He resented Tyrus for keeping them both ignorant of each other, but his other feelings about his uncle were starting to change. How to describe them? Where he was accustomed to feeling hardness and bitterness when thinking about Tyrus, his feelings concerning Hettie were soft and mercurial. He wanted to protect her, to be certain that no man ever owned her again. The anger toward Tyrus began to shift, like a barrel jogged in a wagon, toward the Romani who had stolen her as a babe. He wondered why they had stolen her and not him.

“You both can sleep. I will keep watch.” Paedrin’s voice was slightly condescending. “I need very little sleep, actually.”

Tags: Jeff Wheeler Whispers from Mirrowen Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net